His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. “You see,” he said, “it is doubtful if we can ever marry. "I can never get poor Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to stupify myself somehow. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. “She means to go. ” “You mean you’re going to run away with me?” He asked in semi-seriousness. Pistols and pictures? Now it fair goes agin’ me nature to act rough with a lady, but you’ll come along of me at once.
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